


an only son, and rich

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bible references, Gen, Letters from Home, Parents & Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Prouvaire receives a letter from his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an only son, and rich

The surest sign that peace had returned to Paris in the late summer of 1830 was, at least to Jean Prouvaire’s mind, the first arrival after the uprising of post from the provinces. Even his name and address had been scrawled frantically, as though his mother had been convinced that if her letter arrived soon enough, Jean might mind its contents as he had not in the past.

“‘It is _not—‘“_ (Courfeyrac, for his dramatic reading of the letter stolen from Prouvaire’s pocket, had assumed a shrill falsetto for the role of Madame Prouvaire), “that we are not proud of your progress in your studies! We only wonder if Paris is _safe’_ —Lord, she sounds like Joly when it’s wet out— ‘and if your education could not as easily be concluded nearer to home. Considering also the company you have been keeping’—oh, good, that’s us— ‘we fear that you are placing yourself at _unnecessary_ risk. Perhaps, if you remain in Paris, politics might be better left to—’” 

“Yes, alright, leave him be,” Feuilly said, his long, quick fingers snatching the letter back and depositing it in Prouvaire’s waiting hands before Courfeyrac could protest. 

“Well!” Courfeyrac said, seizing hold of his hat in mock indignation. “I am going to the park in hope of a respite from this bloody heat. If anyone would like to come along.” 

This proposition being met with general enthusiasm, Prouvaire soon found himself left alone in the café with Enjolras, who had remained characteristically aloof from Courfeyrac’s performance. Which made Prouvaire all the more startled when Enjolras looked up from his book and asked to see the letter.

“I—what? Yes, of—you may, of course, if you—yes, certainly.”

Enjolras took it without comment, then opened his book, drew a paper from between the pages near the back, and offered this to Prouvaire in return. Prouvaire took it, bewildered. Only when it became clear by Enjolras’s perusal of his the letter that no explanation would be forthcoming did Prouvaire open the paper and begin to read it.

It took him several moments to realize what it was—most of all, he realized with a start, because he had never before known Enjolras’s first name. What followed was a letter which could have been the twin of Prouvaire’s own—a woman’s anxious hand, entreaties, insistence, no small appeal to guilt and filial duty. Prouvaire hadn’t known Enjolras’s first name—he’d certainly never thought of the people who shared his last name. He did not, in general, imagine his friends as having parents, as such. They seemed to have sprung fully-formed from the cracks of the Parisian streets, or the backroom of a café, or between the benches in a lecture hall, and certainly not born as children and raised by families… and Enjolras least of all.

“Are you the only son?” Enjolras asked. There was in his face something that would have been wry, had his sculpturesque features been formed to permit such an expression. 

“The only child,” Prouvaire replied. “The _heir_ , as my father likes to say.” He hesitated, then asked, “And you? Do you—do you have brothers, sisters?”

“Three. All girls, all older. I am the youngest— _le benjamin_ , as they say.”

Prouvaire couldn’t help but laugh at the thinly veiled disdain of Enjolras’s tone. “I’ve always liked that saying. It's from Genesis." 

“Yes… yes, it is, isn’t it?” Enjolras frowned. “It’s— to do with Jacob?”

“Well, yes. With Joseph. He was Jacob’s youngest son, his favorite after—” Prouvaire broke off and blushed. “I won’t bore you with Bible stories.”

“No, what is it?” 

“Oh—well—Benjamin is—he’s the youngest of Jacob’s sons. He had twelve. And Joseph was his favorite, but then he was sold into slavery in Egypt, so—so then Benjamin was his favorite. And, um, when Joseph’s older brothers had to bring Benjamin to Egypt with them so they could get food during a famine, Jacob didn’t want him to go. And his sons offered everything, they offered their lives, they offered their son’s lives, as surety for Benjamin. And even so, he only agreed in the end because he realized that if he didn’t, his whole family would die. But he was just so afraid of losing his son.” 

Enjolras was silent a moment, frowning slightly. Then he said briskly, “Well. That fits, then, doesn’t it.” And he offered the letter back. Prouvaire took it, hesitating once again over what to say.

“Sometimes I find it—hard not to listen. It feels selfish, somehow. To stay.”

“You should find it selfish to go.” He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Jacob realized he must risk sacrificing his younger son for the good of his people. Every mother in the history of war and revolution has done the same.”

“But it’s not every mother, is it. It’s your mother. Mine. You can’t truly find it so easy to separate.”

Enjolras smiled slightly. “You sound like Combeferre.”

Prouvaire knew he ought to take that comment as the dismissal it was, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “You can’t, though. Can you?”

“Yes. I can.”

Prouvaire smiled, tucking his letter away. “Then I suppose I must learn to do the same.”

 

(His voice had faltered, almost imperceptibly. But Prouvaire had a poet’s sense for what goes better left unsaid.) 


End file.
